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I just listened to it and made me cry. Tonight I dedicated my sitting to the parents of a 14-year-old boy who died.

Gassho,
Pontus

In a spring outside time, flowers bloom on a withered tree;
you ride a jade elephant backwards, chasing the winged dragon-deer;
now as you hide far beyond innumerable peaks--
the white moon, a cool breeze, the dawn of a fortunate day

It's so beautiful and tremendous, to admit that we are an illusion, or nothing in the absolute (even real in the relative). Sometimes my mind is scared with this idea.
It sounds like Dogen if I don't misunderstand.

I love this song, too. I love how in the newer recording the crowd just went nuts hearing that familiar guitar opening.

"And all your money won't another minute buy..." I like this line the most.

I love it when the older, excellent artists get back on the road. Just saw Peter Gabriel, who is my absolute favorite musician, in on the eighth. Also saw him once before in 2002. Roger Waters still sounded every bit like himself when I saw him perform "The Wall" in December 2010. Neil Young smashed the crap out of a guitar with as much vigor as ever when I saw him in 2009. I am so grateful I have had an opportunity to see these artists live.

Pontus, here is another poem along the same vein as the one you posted:

Title: Away
Author: James Whitcomb Riley

"I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead--. He is just away!

"With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand
He has wandered into an unknown land,

"And left us dreaming how very fair
It needs must be, since he lingers there.

"And you-- O you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad return--,

"Think of him faring on, as dear
In the love of There as the love of Here;

"And loyal still, as he gave the blows
Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes--.

"Mild and gentle, as he was brave--,
When the sweetest love of his life he gave

"To simple things--: Where the violets grew
Blue as the eyes they were likened to,

"The touches of his hands have strayed
As reverently as his lips have prayed:

"When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred
Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

"And he pitied as much as a man in pain
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain--.

"Think of him still as the same, I say:
He is not dead-- he is just away!"

In a spring outside time, flowers bloom on a withered tree;
you ride a jade elephant backwards, chasing the winged dragon-deer;
now as you hide far beyond innumerable peaks--
the white moon, a cool breeze, the dawn of a fortunate day